


A Lovestory, Rewritten

by midnightair



Category: Their Finest (2016)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-09 00:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11657940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightair/pseuds/midnightair
Summary: or: the way things should have gone





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in a million years, but I keep thinking about Catrin and Phyl, and so here I go. Filling in some moments that could (or should!) have been part of the movie, and posting it before I read the book because I'm pretty sure it's going to ruin my headcannon.

After the bombing, Buckley’s death is full of painful irony. Small and insignificant against the losses London has born the night before, and yet the hole his passing rips into the film crew feels large, surreal. Time stops for all of them, just for a moment, and then speeds up again as the limp body, still warm, is carried away rapidly before Catrin’s eyes.

Phyl has her hands full, trying to hold the crew together, organizing tea for everyone, and struggling to think about tomorrow. It’s down to her to keep things moving, so the schedule can be kept – and while the sun is still up, hiding somewhere behind thick grey clouds, she is glad that there is something to keep her mind busy. She smokes even more than usual, cursing when her pack is empty, when she looks up from her paperwork at last to find that everyone has gone.

Only then the emptiness starts to settle, sucking the air out of the room like a vacuum. Nothing left, even to keep her hands busy, the thoughts she’s been keeping out all day come crashing in. The dam has broken, and before she knows it, she’s on a bus, riding past the ruins of the city she loves so dearly. Any other day, that part would have broken her heart (though Phyl is careful to keep that sentimental side of herself hidden from her colleagues); but today, there’s nothing left to break.

There are tears pricking in the corners of her eyes. She wouldn’t be the first woman to cry on a bus today; not even on this bus, she’d wage a bet, but she refuses to display so publicly a sign of her own weakness, and bites down hard on the inside of her cheek instead.

Catrin is curled up in the small, tight office, so well hidden by the absence of light that the small bulk of her blends in with the rest of the furniture.

Phyl opens the door lightly, and tiptoes inside – but her efforts to stay quiet are in vain. Catrin stirs, and Phyl finds her eyes in the darkness, red rimmed and glassy from a day of grief. There is little to say, and for once no clever remark finds its way onto Phyl’s lips. Instead, she sits down next to Catrin, who scoots over to make room, and wraps her arms around her.

“Have you been here all day?” Phyl asks in a low voice, fearful to disturb the semblance of peace that has settled on the room.

“I’ve nowhere else to go,” is Catrin’s reply – louder, but with a quiver running underneath. Her body is stiff against Phyl’s attempt of physical comfort, unwilling to bend and sag, to accept the offered embrace; and perhaps it’s out of line, perhaps she’s not the right person to ask, but Phyl does it anyway: “Why don’t you come home with me?”

  


The trip back to her flat is passed in silence, though Phyl, every once in a while, feels the urge to speak up, to shatter the weight of it. She doesn’t, and holds her tongue, leading the way through the dark, past shattered buildings, past rubble and broken glass. Tonight, the city’s wounds are awfully fitting: torn to pieces, reflecting their own state of mind.

Home is humble at best – especially now, as the war wages on. Phyl has always preferred spending time elsewhere (and elsewhere more often than not means at work), and has rarely brought back company to the one room apartment. It has a bed, a closet, kitchenette, and a shared bathroom across the hall, but it’s still standing, and she – and Catrin – are both still alive. She reminds herself of that fact as she lights a small oil lamp that dips the shabby room into a golden glow. “It’s not much…” she offers up with a lopsided grin, but it’s a weak attempt at conversation, and is met, at first, with silence.

Catrin takes her time to look around; takes in the cardboard that covers a broken pane in the window, the cracks along the ceiling leaving dark trails that run across the walls as well. “It’s fine,” she says at last, with a sad smile forced onto her lips. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

"Of course.”

In automated movements, Phyl places her kettle on the stove, and unbuttons the blazer she is wearing. As the water heats up, she moves towards her closet, and picks out a second pair of men’s pyjamas. “You’ll be more comfortable in this,” she offers Catrin, whose glance lingers on the garments for a moment before she nods. Backs turned to each other, they each slip into their own pair of flannels, and then sit down to sip their tea.

There still isn’t much to say, but tea, it seems, warms Catrin up a bit – or perhaps it’s just the light that makes her features look less drawn, less grey. When their eyes meet, Phyl offers her a smile, and hopes that Catrin can find some comfort in not being alone. They don’t talk of anything, and they certainly don’t discuss the fact that Phyl has not shared a bed with a woman platonically since she was still a girl (and even then, her mind may have wandered). They slip into her narrow bed, huddled together under one blanket, legs touching and breath mingling. At least the bed warms up more quickly than it does when she’s alone…

“I hope this is okay,” again, Phyl’s tone becomes apologetic, in a way, though nothing truly warrants an apology.

“Of course,” is Catrin’s reply, echoing what Phyl had said before, and they share a smile that feels genuine for the first time since the accident.

  


Phyl, at last, falls into a heavy sleep. When she wakes up again, light is creeping in through the window, and Catrin is already up, though still dressed in the pyjamas that are way too big for her much smaller frame. Phyl blinks against the morning light, and grins at the sight, while she is still undiscovered. She indulges, for a moment, and lingers in bed as she watches Catrin work the kettle and the stove, rise up on tiptoes to inspect her cupboards.

“You won’t find much in there,” Phyl warns as she slips out of bed at last. “There might be enough oats for porridge, if we’re lucky.”

Catrin turns, startled by her voice, and a grin passes across her face briefly. “Then we’ll make do with porridge. Good morning, Phyl.”

“Good morning Catrin. Did you sleep at all?”

“A little. But it was nice to have –” Catrin pauses in her response, focussing instead on the tin pot and the bag of oats she’s retrieved, “to not be alone.”

Phyl acknowledges the comment silently, and pleased, before she opens the doors to her closet and digs deep. “I’m going to have to find you something to wear, haven’t I?” She hasn’t owned a skirt in years, and Catrin, it seems, has never even thought of wearing trousers, but they make it work, with belts and rolled up legs, and end up actually laughing.

  


Life goes on, as it always does, and they fall into a quiet routine over the next few days (and days turn into weeks). Catrin even admits that she enjoys the trousers, though she still finds new skirts and blouses that actually fit. Phyl’s cupboards are filled, as well, with what their combined food stamps allow. Catrin’s grief comes and goes in waves, sometimes stronger, sometimes weak, but whenever Phyl looks at her, she sees only a shadow of the woman she met. But it’s easy to get used to this sort of companionship – of having someone around to share breakfast with, who makes tea, and even cooks occasionally.

It comes as somewhat of a shock, then, when Catrin tells her over dinner, into the third week of their cohabitation, that she has found a room of her own. The shock must have been written on her features, for Catrin reaches out across the table, and squeezes Phyl’s hand. “You’ve let me stay on long enough,” she tells her hostess with that charming Welsh lilt in her voice, “but I can’t impose myself any longer. I can move next week.”

And just like that, their brief interlude together comes to an end.


	2. Chapter 2

Before the premiere of the film –  _ their  _ film, more than anyone else’s – Phyl makes her way to Catrin’s apartment, both made and dressed up. London is quiet and dusky, but the ground crunches with every step, reminding her of the rubble of falling buildings. 

Catrin’s new landlady gives her a particularly piercing look, and Phyl can guess what this good Christian woman is thinking of her slacks, her lipsticked mouth, her red hair falling, just for once, loose and soft around her face and shoulders. Phyl meets the stare with a brilliant smile, tells the lady she’s here to see her friend, and the woman steps aside and lets her enter, with nothing more than a grumble. 

The flat looks just as bleak and impersonal as it did when she helped Catrin move in – the vain task of splitting the two slim bags of her belongings between the both of them that Phyl somehow still thought necessary, to see Catrin safely off, to see her in her new home – and though Phyl is in no position to judge, it still sends a shiver down her back. The scene is set for Catrin, greeting her in a housecoat, looking just as bleak as her abode. For a moment, at least, Phyl sees her features soften, before the defensive walls go back up.

“I’m not going,” Catrin tells her, defiantly. Of course she knows why Phyl is here, and Phyl only sighs.

“I see you’ve made up your mind.” There’s resignation in her voice. Catrin has made up her mind weeks ago already, and Phyl knows how determined the woman can be. Still, she wanted to try, still wants to try, to drag Catrin out and to Leicester Square, to show her what they’ve achieved together. Catrin’s first film script – and Buckley’s last – and it has grown to mean so much more than anyone had thought when they began.

“You’re absolutely sure?” Phyl ventures, after a pause. “It really won’t be the same without you. Everyone keeps asking… They all miss you, Catrin.”  _ And I miss you too _ , she wants to add, but doesn’t. She’s been trying not to linger on the thought too much, but life is lacking vibrancy since Phyl doesn’t get to see Catrin regularly anymore. Part of her wants to confess how she feels – but as always, she holds on tight to her emotions.

“I am.” Catrin says with that familiar tone of quiet sternness, that softens when she adds: “You look lovely tonight, Phyl,” and even offers up a smile.

It tugs at Phyl like a string round her heart, and she  _ almost  _ blushes. “Thank you.”

  
  


When Phyl returns, after the film, it’s so late she doesn’t dare wake up Catrin’s landlady – particularly not with a stolen bottle of champagne hidden under her coat.

Like some lovesick fool in one of those terrible romance movies, she picks up a few small pebbles and aims for Catrin’s window, calling her name in a loud stage whisper until Catrin opens. 

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Phyl asks without wiping the grin off her face. Knowing Catrin, she was still lying awake, indulging her insomnia – and Catrin shakes her head in affirmation. “You didn’t.”

Phyl moves past her swiftly, letting the door fall shut with a click that might raise the landlady’s suspicions, but right now, she doesn’t care. The plop of the cork is likewise louder than the nighttime warrants, but tonight is nothing if not an exception.

She doesn’t wait till Catrin speaks, and doesn’t ask permission as she picks up two battered tin cups that are the perfect contrast to the elegant dark green bottle with the expensive gold lettering on its label. “They loved it.  _ Everyone  _ loved it,” she exclaims at last in triumph, forces one cup on Catrin and clinks her own against it. 

Relief floods Catrin’s face so obviously that Phyl moves in to ask: “You weren’t worried, were you?” to see Catrin shake her head yet again. “No, I was trying to sleep,” she tells her uninvited guest, but Catrin can’t hide the smile on her face, and they both know she’s lying.

They empty the champagne slowly, as Phyl narrates the entire evening for Catrin. In the end, they’re both giggling – flushed and happy – but dawn is edging closer, and Phyl suddenly remembers the landlady, and gets up so quickly the room sways slightly. “I’d better go,” she tells Catrin, one hand on the other woman’s shoulder to steady her stance, “before your landlady gets suspicious. She already thinks I’ve been sent by the devil.” Laughter bubbles up inside her as she thinks about it for another beat, but Catrin’s hand on her own brings her back into the moment.

“You could stay,” Catrin offers, and there’s something in her eye (or Phyl simply imagines), “sleep over?”

As tempting as the offer is (and Phyl considers for a while), she declines at last, and grabs her coat. “I’ll see you soon?” she asks, a hopeful invitation in her voice, and Catrin nods, as she gets up as well. She accompanies Phyl the few steps to the door, and then reaches out to hug her, unexpectedly.

“Thank you,” Catrin whispers into the wool of Phyl’s coat, and then gets up on tiptoes to brush her lips against Phyl’s cheek, missing only slightly and landing on her lips.

It’s not quite a kiss, Phyl tells herself as she leaves Catrin behind, not daring to look back at all, but still her mouth tingles where Catrin’s lips have touched her own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long planned and definitely not living up to what I had in mind, the third and final part of their story. I have no practice in writing love scenes, so please be lenient with me.

It’s after Catrin’s first day back at work – the wordless nonchalance with which she simply showed up at her desk, ready to write still lodged in Phyl’s mind – when Phyl has already taken off her makeup, exchanged her pantsuit for a button down pyjama, that there’s a knock on her door. She hesitates, unwilling to expose her choice of sleepwear to just anyone, but the knock comes again: it’s soft, but insistent, and there is just a single name Phyl can connect with it.

“Catrin,” she opens the door and finds she is right. Despite the late hour, her lips twitch into a smile, initially, before the expression is replaced by a frown. “Is something wrong?” The war is still going on, after all, and though the sirens have been mercifully quiet for the past few nights, one never knows what could have happened. There’s Catrin standing in her doorway, still dressed the way she was at work, coat firmly buttoned, hat pinned in place; but her face is unworried as she steps past Phyl and into the apartment, letting the door fall into its lock after her.

“Nothing is wrong,” she tells Phyl softly, eyes trained on her naked face. “Then why…,” Phyl begins another question, without bothering to finish. Instead, she watches Catrin unbutton her woolen coat, put aside hat and gloves and the small handbag on her wrist in silence. It creates tension in the air, first faint, but getting stronger. Phyl wants to know the reason for this late night visit, but Catrin’s actions bear no room for her inquiries. And so Phyl leans against a wall and waits, unable to discern what move she’s to expect. Even the streets are quiet: London, beyond the darkened window, is tucked away in bed already – and still Catrin is here, her faint vanilla scent invading the small room. 

“Girls like us,” Catrin states at last the title of the film they’ve started working on. There’s more behind her words than simply that: Phyl tries to decode the message hidden in her tone, and tries to push away the niggling thought that this may – by any chance – have something to do with her offhand suggestion, a thought that starts to crowd out anything else when Catrin starts moving closer, lips curled into a smile. The situation, just for once, is entirely out of her hands. It’s not within Phyl’s control at all, and neither is the way her body reacts to the presence of another, so close that she can feel Catrin’s warmth through the layers of fabric that still lie between them. There’s nothing she can do to stop her breath from hitching when Catrin comes one step closer still, when she reaches up to trace a finger across Phyl’s unpencilled brow. 

It’s quite inevitable, by now, that they should fall into a kiss, but it’s not done on Phyl’s initiation. 

Instead, it’s Catrin who rises up on tiptoes, touching her lips to Phyl’s with gingerly care, as if afraid something might break. And for a moment, she wonders if their friendship will, through this, before she feels the tension in Phyl’s body slowly relax, feels her sinking into the kiss she’s offering, accepting quickly everything she’s being given.

A certain hesitance still lingers in Phyl’s actions: she’s still not certain what has brought this on, or if this truly is what Catrin wants, but her mouth is too busy to ask questions, and she has the sense that any spoken words would only burst the little bubble that has sprung up around them. There isn’t much room left for interpretation when Catrin parts her lips and pulls Phyl closer with one hand, the other hooking one finger into the V of Phyl’s pyjama shirt, toying but not opening the first of its many buttons.

And then, Phyl does what comes natural to her, and takes the lead again.

One arm wrapped around Catrin’s middle, she guides them gently closer to the bed, abandoning her post against the wall with a sudden eagerness the touch of fingers on her chest must have unlocked; but her own buttons are of little interest anymore as she begins to work on Catrin’s blouse, the cardigan already on the floor.

The cotton rustles louder than it should, amplified by the vacuum of noise around them, and Phyl drops eager kisses along the line of Catrin’s naked shoulder, tracing along the countless freckles on her skin. She doesn’t stop for a moment to consider just how beautiful this woman is for fear that it might take away her breath. Instead, she busies herself with Catrin’s skirt, sliding it gently over the curve of her hips. While Phyl’s hands caress the lines of her body, Catrin herself stands still in surrender, muscles tense but expectant, unsure whether the goosebumps rising on her skin are caused by the cool air – or by the way Phyl’s hands are moving, brushing her breasts, with nipples rising instantly to meet her touch, the way her fingers run along the hem of Catrin's slip, and then swiftly slide the straps over her shoulders.

Phyl leaves kisses along the trail of the falling garment, soft and full of reverence, sending heat fluttering through Catrin’s body. 

Their unspoken pact of silence is upheld, even as Phyl’s name begins to sear itself onto Catrin’s tongue, even as compliments of Catrin’s beauty long to be whispered against her milkys skin. Even whimpers threatening to spill are muted into breathless gasps.

Entirely undressed, Catrin lets herself be led towards the bed they’ve shared already, a barrier of cotton pyjamas ensuring distance between their bodies. It is that thought which makes her own hands spring back into action, hungry eyes still trained on Phyl as she blindly unbuttons the shirt that is still keeping skin from skin.

Phyl shakes it from her shoulders, revealing herself without any of the shyness Catrin still feels will rise to the surface of her face if she will pause enough to let it; but taking in the naked skin before her, lust quickly drowns the last hints out. 

There is opportunity for exploration: another female body next to hers is still a novelty for Catrin, but there is no wavering in her actions. She is less careful than Phyl with her hungry kisses, more certain of Phyl’s desires, and the reactions caused by her caress serve further as encouragement. 

Eventually, Phyl takes the lead again, with Catrin on her back, letting her knees fall open.

At work, it’s Catrin’s task to craft a happy ending – tonight, Phyl takes it on herself, not with the written word but with her fingers and her mouth, moving tenderly and knowing where to touch as Catrin squirms with pleasure, struggling to keep in her moans. Phyl’s physicality, her presence is quite overwhelming, crowding out thoughts of anything else. Forgotten is the city that lies sleeping among the rubble just beyond these walls, forgotten is the work they share, the job that has been on Catrin's mind non-stop. Forgotten, too, is one Tom Buckley, exorcised like some unwanted poltergeist. 

In the early hours of the morning, they fall asleep at last: sated and dazed with consummated passion, their bodies are curled together closely, chests rising and falling simultaneously as night slips into day.


End file.
